“I’m sorry I’m such a flop, Tim,” he said. “I tried hard to make good because you told Carson I could do it.”
“Make good?” exclaimed Tim. “Why Ralph, you’re a flyer if ever there was one. It takes nerves and brains to do what you did this afternoon to keep a ship aloft with your legs paralyzed and your gas supply dwindling down to nothing. Believe me, that was flying.”
The cold winds of winter had been replaced by the warmer breezes of early spring and clouds that had been heavy with snow unleashed their burden of rain. It was poor weather for flying and Tim, after checking over his plane, was preparing to leave the airport.
The deep humming of a powerful motor attracted his attention and he turned toward the sound. Out of the low gray clouds in the west a black monoplane flashed into view. It was coming fast and low. The craft shot over the field and as it flashed by, Tim noted that it was a dull black. The fact that there were no numbers indicating its department of commerce rating troubled him. Then the pilot of the unknown plane banked sharply, and with motor on full, sped back over the field.
An arm flashed over the edge of the fuselage and a white object floated down. Tim splashed across the muddy field and retrieved the letter from the puddle in which it had fallen. By that time the black plane had disappeared with only a faint drumming of its motor to tell of its passing.
The flying reporter held the letter gingerly. When he turned it over he was astounded to find that it was addressed to him. On the envelope, in a rough scrawl, were the words, “For Tim Murphy.”
Tim tore open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of plain paper. The words were few but they burned their way into his mind.
“Murphy,” he read, “you’ve spoiled my game once. Don’t do it again.” It was signed, “The Sky Hawk.”
A queer feeling, certainly not that of fear, yet hardly that of elation, held Tim for a moment. So he had crossed the path of the Sky Hawk, the famous bandit who had been terrorizing the airways of the east. Tim smiled a little grimly. So far he had always been able to take care of himself and he had won his first tilt with the sky robber.
Stories about the Sky Hawk had been front page news some months before when he had staged a number of daring aerial holdups on eastern airways, but recently he had disappeared, which accounted for the failure to first connect him with the robbery of the Transcontinental Air Mail. There were many tales about the Sky Hawk. Some were that he was a super-flyer, a famous World war ace who had gone wrong; others had him leading a desperate band of aerial gunmen. One thing Tim knew; if the Sky Hawk had been piloting the plane which had attacked the mail, he had a number of accomplices.